[Chapter Size: 1100 Words.]
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On the following night, in the garden atop Yunkai's grandest pyramid,
Theon was gently stroking the white dragon, who had become far more obedient now.
The day before, after Theon had recovered his armor, the white dragon Viserion had scorched him with a blast of fire.
Once he regained his strength, Theon beat the dragon severely, and its cries echoed for hours.
Suddenly, the dragon lifted its head toward the sky and released a chilling roar.
Apollo returned once more to Yunkai's pyramid.
Turning his massive head toward Viserion, Apollo remarked in surprise, "A wyvern?"
"You knew?" Theon asked, equally astonished.
"I did. I have a description of the creature in my memory," Apollo replied.
"Are wyverns considered sub-dragons?" Theon asked curiously.
"Technically, they're not. Sub-dragons are hybrids, descendants of dragons and other species."
"Wyverns, however, are simply another kind of dragon, though far weaker than true four-legged dragons."
After listening, Theon finally understood the distinction.
It was as if a Tibetan Mastiff represented a four-legged dragon, while a Corgi represented a two-legged wyvern.
Both were dogs, yet their strength and appearance differed greatly.
"What do you think? This female dragon is the last of her kind. Do you like her?" Theon asked.
Apollo seized Viserion with his foreclaws and drew the creature closer for inspection.
After a careful look, he said, "She is beautiful. I'm very pleased. The only pity is that she's still young."
"As long as you're satisfied. Even though she's young, she will grow in time."
Theon had feared that Apollo might disdain the white dragon.
"Let us return to the Riverlands," Theon said, climbing onto Apollo's back.
Viserion was taken captive by Apollo.
When they returned to Westeros, Apollo dropped Theon off at Seagard before flying on to Pyke with Viserion in tow.
At that moment, Tyrion, having heard the commotion, stepped outside.
"Your Majesty? I thought you had gone to Essos?"
"I did, but I've just returned. How goes the military mobilization in Riverrun?" Theon asked.
Some time ago, Theon had ordered Tyrion to rally troops from the Riverlands.
The veterans had been dispatched southward to guard against threats from below, while fifty thousand fresh recruits gathered in Riverrun, awaiting orders.
Now all that remained was Theon's command.
"Your Majesty, are you truly planning to act against the North?" Tyrion asked, puzzled.
In his view, though vast, the North was barren.
Its harsh environment offered little worth the effort of conquest.
For if Theon intervened there, both the Boltons and the Starks would surely respond.
Though enemies for now, the two houses might well unite against him if he marched northward.
"The southern North has wide grasslands, ideal for raising livestock. And because the land is vast yet sparsely settled, it is even better suited for industrial expansion," Theon explained.
In truth, he sought to link the Riverlands with the North.
"Well, you are always right," Tyrion said.
Under Theon's rule, the Riverlands had advanced so swiftly over the past two years that Tyrion often struggled to comprehend it.
Most notably, Theon had purchased enormous tracts of land and planted them with hardy strains of wheat.
Harvested every two months, the crops made Riverrun a region overflowing with food.
Common families now managed three meals a day, plain meals, but abundant ones, something unimaginable before.
Moreover, Theon had forbidden the export of grain. Any such attempt was treated as a capital crime, equivalent to smuggling weapons.
"I won't always be right. Eventually, I'll reach a knot I cannot untangle," Theon admitted.
"A knot?" Tyrion asked curiously.
"Nothing," Theon replied, shaking his head.
"Well, you're always saying things that make no sense, which makes me wonder if you'll turn into the Mad King when you grow old."
Tyrion pulled an exaggerated face. "I just hope the Drowned God gives you back your armor by then. Otherwise, I'd better pack my bags and flee to Essos."
"Is there a chance Essos will already be my territory by that time?" Theon joked with a smile.
At those words, Tyrion suddenly remembered something. "Your Majesty, what did you gain from this journey to Slaver's Bay?"
"Oh, nothing much. The harvest isn't that impressive. I only gained a wife, a dragon, and two cities. As for the rest, I haven't started reaping yet," Theon said casually.
Tyrion shot to his feet. "You married Daenerys Targaryen?"
"How could she agree to that? And even give you a dragon!?" Tyrion asked in disbelief.
"I didn't tell her the details of my situation, nor that I already had two wives." A sly smile spread across Theon's face.
"All she knows is that I can summon armor, and that I'm King of the Iron Islands with an iron fleet capable of helping her cross the Narrow Sea."
"Ah, you're a master of cunning. But eventually, she'll learn that you rule the Riverlands. And soon the North will be added as well, forcing you to establish a kingdom!"
"So what? I took her then, and I took one of her dragons too," Theon replied indifferently.
"What can she do about it? Besides, I'll keep the war in Slaver's Bay alive so we can sell off the surplus gear retired from our armies. We can also sell factory-made clothing and shoes."
Tyrion's face was a mix of shock and dawning realization.
"Your Majesty is wise. Now we can profit by selling the surplus we produce to the warring factions."
Theon nodded. "Exactly. We can even profit again by reselling the equipment once it's returned to us."
"Should we sell the grain?" Tyrion suddenly asked.
"No. When the Long Night arrives, not only will we refuse to sell, but we'll need to purchase in bulk. Just buy steadily, in regular shipments. The more food, the better."
"Understood, Majesty. Leave it to me."
"By the way, Majesty, have you thought of a pretext for sending troops?" Tyrion asked.
"Say it's vengeance for Robb. My good brother was betrayed by his vassal, Roose Bolton. As Bran, his younger brother, cannot avenge him, I, as his foster son, led an army in fury to storm the Dreadfort and destroy Roose Bolton."
Tyrion frowned. "And the Starks? They've ruled the North for eight thousand years. The northern lords will never accept you."
"Then say the Starks are conspiring with the White Walkers. That way we can move against them. Any lord who refuses obedience will be branded as an accomplice of the Walkers and executed at once.
"After all, for every man unafraid of death, there are always more who fear it. Some can be won, some suppressed, and some must be killed, that always works."
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